The name makes me tense.
The message makes me tenser.
* * *
To: Sabrina G
From: Kermit LF
* * *
Sabrina, I think it would be in your best interest if we set a time to talk.
* * *
My stomach dives painfully. I wonder if I can be eaten alive by worry. Maybe it is possible.
I write back, asking when he’s free. That ought to buy me some time. That’s what I need right now. I shove Kermit out of my mind when he doesn’t reply right away.
As the sun begins to rise, I read my article one more time.
I’ll be ready to turn this in once I have Kevin’s feedback, and after I meet Flynn for my final fact-check.
I have to fact-check in person. There is no other reason for me to see him, especially not the memory of that kiss I can’t get out of my mind.
We are nearly done.
This time he chose another one of my favorite places. We stroll along the Central Park Mall, one of the many beautiful places in this park that’s home to countless beautiful places. The walkway runs through the middle of the green land, with huge beds of flowers south of us and a gorgeous bridge north of us. I can imagine that years ago on this path, carriages filled with glittering men and women, perhaps heading to masquerades, clip-clopped across these stones.
We walk and we talk, as has become our custom, while I check the final details for the piece.
“My T’s are crossed and my I’s are dotted.” I turn off the recorder and a wave of sadness wallops me out of nowhere. Like I’m standing on the shore, and a tsunami clobbers me without warning.
This is the last time I can devise a reason to see him. We might run in the same circles, we might even wind up talking more regularly if the job comes through, but this is the end of the line for us.
For whatever we’ve been.
For Angel and Duke.
For this pretend-not-pretend brief little New York love affair. A lump rises in my throat, and I try mightily to swallow it down. But it lodges there, and I hate that a dumb tear forms in the corner of my eye. I glance toward the trees, towering canopies hanging over the walkway, and blink away the thoughts of how much I want this to continue.
I hate my lot in life right now.
I hate my last newspaper and the fact that it couldn’t survive.
I hate my mother and her inability to take care of the two of us when she was supposed to. I hate that I had to do it before my own time.
What I hate most, though, is that I was assigned a story that invigorated me professionally and shredded my heart personally.
But I’m a big girl. I’ve been through tougher times.
Raising my chin, I suck in the emotion and tell myself I’ll live off the memories of this man and how he made me feel like my life was easy, because being with him is the easiest thing in the world.
He sighs. “So, this is it.”
I smile sadly. “I wish I had something else to fact-check.”
He licks his lips and steps closer to me. “Me too. Maybe next time we could fact-check at the Met. Another one of your favorite places.”
“I feel like we’ve gone to all my favorite places these last several days. What about yours?”
“I have new favorite places now.” He reaches for a lock of my hair, running his finger over the end as it curls.
Something inside me melts. The final piece of ice that encased my heart when Ray left me cracks, splitting down the middle, leaving me raw but also ready for another chance.
No more ice. My heart is open.
It’s telling me to take a chance with him.
I can’t let the heart fool me though.
Life isn’t a fairy tale. The modern-day maiden must be practical above all. I might want to toss responsibility into the breeze like dandelions, then skip and tra-la-la my way home with him, but I have bills.
And, more importantly, bills have me.
But if I keep looking at his handsome face, his square jaw, his gorgeous green eyes, I’ll buckle.
I tear my gaze away from his magnetic eyes, and something catches my attention on a nearby park bench—the plaque on the top slat of wood, shining as if it has been polished today.
I point to it. “What’s that?”
We walk closer and we read it together out loud, our voices forming melody and harmony. “Tony, win, lose, or break even, you always have me. Love, Karen.”
I look at Flynn. We both shrug then smile.
“One more adventure?” I offer, a note of hope in my voice. “We need to know what that means.”
“Clearly.”
We whip out our phones in unison, and we google like it’s a race.
“It’s an inscription,” he says excitedly.
“A wife surprised her husband,” I say, the words piling up in a rush.
“For his sixty-fifth birthday,” he adds.
And we laugh as we each read the details from an article on the many benches in this park. We learn Tony was a retired investment banker. When he came home from work, his wife, Karen, used to ask him if he won, lost, or broke even.
We spend the next hour or two on a treasure hunt around Central Park, searching for more of the four thousand inscribed benches, reading quirky details of the memories and loves and lives carved into plaques in this park, each inscription costing about ten thousand dollars.
“We rarely notice them. We sit on these benches and we read, drink coffee, make phone calls, or maybe we just text or tweet,” I say.
“Maybe we feed the pigeons. Or wait to meet a friend and meanwhile, we’re surrounded by memories of other people and things that were important to them.”
I spot another one with a fantastic inscription and tug his sleeve, pulling him closer to read. “We would make the same mistake all over again! Vic and Nancy Schiller. Still best friends.”
He finds the info. “When they told her they were getting married, her mother said it would be a mistake,” he says, smiling.
“Guess they had the last laugh. Still together and happy. Okay, this is seriously the coolest thing I’ve ever discovered in New York City.”
“I think so too.” He sets his hand on my arm, running his fingers down my bare skin. “I want to keep discovering them. I want to go all over the park and find the best ones. I want to do that with you.”
My heart soars, terrifying me with how much longing is in it, so much I feel like I’m going to burst, to drown in it.
I meet his gaze.
The look in his eyes is different than I’ve seen before. It’s vulnerable and hopeful and perhaps the slightest bit nervous.
23
Flynn
* * *
In front of the Schillers’ bench, I have to float the next question. Despite the risks, despite my own fears, now is the time to ask.
I didn’t plan to ask her here. But here is the right place.
“Sabrina,” I say, my voice gravelly with nerves, “what happens when the story is done?”
The nerves aren’t from how I feel for her. They come from whether she’ll allow an us to happen. Whether she’s willing to take a chance. That’s the great unknown. That’s the uncontrollable factor.
“What do you mean?”
I reach for her hand, sliding my fingers through hers. “Do you think there’s any way we could do this?”
“Do what?” Her voice is barely a breath on the air. “I need you to spell it out.”
I love that she wants utter clarity. It’s so her. “Be together. You and me.” I point from her to me and back. “Have a real go of it.”
“Be together,” she repeats, as if she’s making sense of what I’m saying.
I loop my fingers tighter through hers. “I’ve had a great time with you over these two weeks, and I want to see where we can go. The article is almost done, so does that mean we can have a new beginning?”
She sighs, a melancholy sound. I want to hit the
rewind button, go back in time ten seconds, and turn that sigh into one of contentment.
“Flynn,” she says, and my name sounds like an apology. Tension flares through me, and I wonder how I’ve read this wrong. How I’ve completely misunderstood yesterday’s kiss and everything else. “You know I wish it was different. You have to know that, right?”
There’s heartache in her voice.
“Yeah, I know that,” I say heavily.
Her fingers slide tighter through mine, and her touch has become an epilogue, the last reminder that we were always pretend. We were each better off not knowing who the other was, when we slipped on our masks and made believe we could be people we weren’t.
“I want that more than anything. But this is a big chance for me at Up Next. If I can impress Mr. Galloway with this piece, there could be a whole new beat writing deep features on companies—including yours. And you know it’s not only my career,” she adds, her voice a bare plea. “I have to support Kevin. I want to support Kevin. He’s my brother, but he also doesn’t have anyone else who can look out for him the way I do.”
“I understand.” And I do. I understand deeply he’s the world to her, and that’s how it should be. She has to put him first.
She has to put herself second.
That means we won’t turn into anything more. We’ll keep fading into less.
If I believed in fate, I’d say it was meant to be this way.
But I believe in math and on the surface, we don’t add up.
We’re an inequality.
One has more than the other. One needs more than the other. One can’t give what the other must have.
But what if I could balance the equation? A surge of energy shoots through me. I’ve built companies my whole adult life. I create jobs. I can make one for her. I can solve this math problem. “Wait. What if I gave you a job?”
She furrows her brow. “What? Why on earth would you give me a job?”
Be her cushion. “Maybe we can come up with something.”
“I don’t even understand what that would be.”
I hunt for an idea. Anything at all. “Writing a newsletter or marketing copy or something.”
She shoots me a look—one that says she can’t believe I offered that. One that says she’s slightly offended. “You can’t solve this for me by coming up with a job you don’t have and don’t need,” she sputters, flapping her hands.
“What if we needed that?” I posit.
She narrows her eyes. “But you don’t. You don’t really need to hire me. Also, that’s not the kind of job I want or am good at.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, frustrated as hell to be back to an equation with no answer. “That was kind of ridiculous and insulting.”
“It’s fine,” she says softly. “I know where you’re coming from. I just want you to understand. I’m not a marketing writer. Or a newsletter writer. I’m a reporter.”
“I know. I wish I could help.”
She nods, her expression softening. “I appreciate the sentiment, but right now the job I want is covering your business. I’ve tried to convince myself every night that I can feel how I do about you and still do my job objectively,” she says, and my heart sits up, hoping. “But I can’t. And I think maybe it’s best if we stop . . .” She takes a beat, swallows, and seems to gird herself to say the harder part. “Stop seeing each other like this.”
A kick in the gut. I saw it coming, but it still smarts like a screaming demon. Only, I don’t want her to know how much this hurts. I don’t want to let on for a second that I’m in pain.
“Absolutely. I absolutely agree.” I drop her hand, making it clear I’m 100 percent on board with this.
That’s a lie.
But I’m not interested in letting the truth shine through. Not when there’s a hole in my chest from the punch she delivered.
24
Sabrina
* * *
Kermit writes back that afternoon. He wants to see me later this week.
* * *
To: Sabrina G
From: Kermit LF
* * *
Had to catch a flight to Palo Alto. I’ll call you, or text you, or really, you should make time for me on Wednesday.
* * *
It’s not presented as optional.
I don’t know why, but I can guess. I suspect he’s going to aim that Nerf gun of his in my direction and blow my cover.
Reveal my dirty little secret.
He’s going to topple the vase, like a destructive cat, and gleefully watch as the glass shatters.
Writing back, I tell him I’ll see him on Wednesday.
It’s like scheduling an appointment with the executioner, and the only thing left is to decide how I want my neck sliced. Do I do it myself, or let Kermit the Douche drop the blade?
My stomach churns as I pace my tiny apartment, wishing for answers. Wishing for someone to swoop in and tell me what to do.
But the thing is—that’s my job.
It’s been my job since I was eighteen and my mom up and left. Since she grabbed her fake Louis Vuitton and said, “See you later, kids, I’m outta here.” Once it was clear she wasn’t coming back, I secured guardianship of Kevin, somehow juggling college and official surrogate parenthood at the same damn time. The balancing act was no fun at all, but it was so rewarding to see my little brother turn into the finest of men.
I’d do it all over again, even the hard parts, even the not-fun parts.
I’ve learned something else that’s no fun at all.
This.
This is what it feels like to fall in love, have your gut punched, and miss the man you can’t be with.
For the record, it feels like complete and utter crap.
As I work on a new design for an adorable skirt made from a dove-gray patterned fabric with script-y French words across it, I cut my finger. I curse, and blood spurts all over my hand, making a beeline for the word reve. Fitting, that dream should be bloodied.
I jump from the table, run to the sink, and wash the blood off my finger. More crimson pours and the slice hurts. This should feel symbolic, but it mostly feels annoying. Because everything is irksome now.
A man like Flynn Parker came into my life at exactly the moment when I didn’t just need him, I wanted him. He came like a beautiful summer day, like blue skies and sunshine, a walk along the beach, and peaceful easy times. He’s evenings under the stars too, nights spent dancing, laughing, tumbling together and kissing, hot and fevered and sweaty.
Giving myself to Flynn would be easy because he wouldn’t hurt me.
That’s what I let slip through my fingers for a possibility.
But I had to. I had no choice.
I keep running the water, and the blood spills into the sink.
I don’t think Flynn would hurt me like Ray did. I don’t believe he’s like that. I believe he’s a man of his word, a man I can trust, and saying those words to him—we need to stop seeing each other—hurt way more than this sliced finger.
When the blood ceases to flow, I wrap a towel tight around my finger, find a Band-Aid, and put it on the cut. Giving the sewing a break, I settle back in with the article, review Kevin’s notes, and make my final tweaks. Then I stand and pace like a lion in the zoo. Cross the kitchen. Walk to the futon. Cover the same path again.
I draw a deep breath and scan my little place. The walls seem to hover, to sway. This apartment is suddenly too tiny. It can’t contain me and all these rampant emotions pinballing through my chest.
I call Kevin and tell him I’m taking the next train to come see him.
A couple hours later, the train rattles into the station in the sleepy little New England town where he goes to divinity school. He meets me at the depot, and his smile is magnetic. It hits me in a raw, visceral way. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me.
A strange relief works its way into me as we reconnect. He’s
my person. I needed to see him. I desperately need to talk to him. I can’t stand trying to sort out all these feelings on my own.
We leave the station and head into town where we settle in at a café and order tea.
He slides my cup toward me. “It must be good if you came all the way out here to see me.”
I heave a painful sigh, emotions clogging my throat. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what’s the right thing to do.”
He leans back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head. “It’s the guy, isn’t it?”
I give him more details. “I know I won’t get the job if I’m seeing him. I can’t cover his sector if I’m involved with him. Who would give that gig to me? That’s crazy. It’s one thing to disclose at the end of a story that you’re involved with somebody, the way a publication would disclose you own stock. Jane Smith has stock in Company X. Jane Smith is in a romantic relationship with Fred Jones. It’s another thing to assign someone to cover an industry on an ongoing basis when their boyfriend or girlfriend is a key player.”
Kevin nods thoughtfully. “What happens in other situations though? What if a reporter already has a job, is covering the business, and she falls for somebody she covers?”
I’ve seen this situation happen at my old paper, and I’ve seen it happen to journalists I know. “He or she is reassigned usually. Our job is to be fair. Our job is to be accurate. I’m not curing cancer or saving the whales, but at the very least, I’m trying to write something unbiased.”
His blue eyes are piercing as he stares at me. “Do you think, then, that you should tell Mr. Galloway?”
He’s tossing ethics back at me, perhaps treating me as he would a parishioner someday.
Come As You Are Page 16